Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned
by Zana Zira
Summary: Alternate Ending to 10x16 "Paint It Black": In which Sam is just a few seconds too late in burning Isabella's portrait, and that one small mistake may wind up costing Dean his life long before the Mark of Cain does. Angst, Hurt!Dean, Caring!Sam, and lots of brotherly fluff. Gen. *NOT a deathfic*


**Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. Sadly, I do not own any of these guys.**

**A/N: Hey, everyone, long time no see! I actually wasn't planning to put up any more new fics for quite a few more weeks (for the reasons behind that, please see the 'announcements' section of my profile page) but this one just wouldn't leave me alone and I needed to get it done so I can focus on my schoolwork.**

**I can hardly believe it, but this is MY 50TH SUPERNATURAL FIC! I actually had a totally different story in mind for this special event, but I'll just go ahead and write that one at some point after my hiatus ends. I hope you enjoy this, and that you'll be patient with me if I don't update again for a little while. ^_^'**

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_"But it wasn't enough. I used the knife to cut off the tip of my first finger, and I told Piero to grind the flesh, blood, and bone into the pigment. I had completely become one with the painting, and with Piero."_

Sam snapped Isabella's journal shut, heaving a relieved sigh as he realized the implications of what he had just read. Isabella wasn't tied to the journal – she was tied to Piero's painting! And if he had listened to Dean and burned the journal right away, he never would have known that.

Hoping Dean was still safe from the crazy woman's spirit for the time being, Sam turned toward the formidable pile of wooden crates against the far wall, each containing one of Piero's paintings from the early sixteenth century. He pulled them forward one at a time and rapidly scanned the labels, one after another after another, feeling his dread increase by the second as none of them turned out to be Isabella's portrait. Had that painting even made it to this location? What if it was in some other Catholic church halfway across the country – or worse, still in Italy?

"Come on, come on, it's gotta be here…" he muttered, shoving crate after heavy crate aside in his frantic search for the spirit's last link to the mortal plane.

Finally, after several more precious seconds had ticked by, he found a wooden box labeled "Isabella" and snatched a crowbar off the desk, prying it between the slats and forcing them apart with little effort. The planks gave way a little at a time, and then suddenly the piece of metal snapped in two, dropping uselessly to the floor as he stared at it in disbelief. Growling in frustration, he shoved his fingers between the weakest planks near the top and pulled with all his strength, grunting when a nail sliced through the flesh on the palm of his hand but not relenting until the wood peeled completely away, and at last he could make out the shape of a golden frame covered in packing straw.

_"Sam, burn the journal!"_

Evidently Isabella wasn't about to wait for them to burn her remains, and Sam's heart began to race at the strain he could hear in his brother's voice. He quickly redoubled his efforts, yanking the aged canvas free of the straw that insulated it before tossing it onto the pile of Isabella's possessions along with her leather-bound journal. He uncapped a small bottle of lighter fluid and sprinkled it over the oil painting as fast as he could, striking a match and watching in satisfaction as the flames ate their way through it and devoured Isabella's likeness from the bottom up.

He sighed in relief when he heard the ghost's screams of despair, knowing that his plan had worked, and took a moment to watch and make sure everything in the pile was going to catch fire. He was just getting ready to add the packing straw to the fire for extra kindling when he heard a frightened gasp from out in the hall, followed by shouting.

_"Oh my God, Agent Allman? Are you alright? AGENT ALLMAN!"_

The terror in Sister Mathias's voice as she screamed Dean's alias made his blood run cold. Had he been too late in burning the painting? He dashed out of the storage room and down the hallway, desperately needing to verify that his brother was alright.

As soon as he rounded the corner, the chill that had been creeping through his blood solidified into ice.

At the end of the hall that led to the church's main room, Dean was crumpled against the wall, bright red blood saturating his abdomen and spreading in an ever-growing pool across the stone floor around him. Sister Mathias was kneeling beside him, holding his face in her hands and trying to get him to speak to her as he doubled over in pain, hands held tight against his middle.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, not bothering to use a fake name as he knelt next to his brother to assess the damage. "Dean, talk to me, man. Where'd she get you?"

The older Winchester winced and clenched his teeth, lifting his bloodstained hands away from his belly long enough for Sam to see a horrifically deep, jagged stab wound just to the right of center on his abdomen. It looked as though Isabella had chosen to stab him and twist the knife, letting the blade tear him up inside as much as possible before roughly jerking it out.

Almost as soon as Dean lifted his hands, copious amounts of blood began spurting from the hole again, and Sam quickly stripped off his outer shirt and pressed it firmly against the wound. Dean whined in pain but weakly covered Sam's hands with his own, indicating that he wanted to keep pressure on the wound himself so Sam could have his hands free.

"Oh, God in Heaven, I did this…" Sister Mathias whispered, in a voice that was very nearly hysterical. She stared blankly at the bloodied knife on the floor, almost as if she couldn't believe it could really have hurt the man in front of her the way her eyes were telling her it had.

"S'mmy…" Dean muttered weakly as his eyes swam dizzily between his brother and the nun. "Don' feel s' hot…" Sam turned back toward him, just in time to see his brother's eyes roll back into his head and his body slump over into the middle of the pool of blood.

"Whoa, hey, Dean!" Sam cried, gently slapping his cheeks and trying to rouse him. When that failed, he placed two fingers against Dean's neck and checked his pulse, biting his lip as he realized how fast and weak it was.

"Sister, where is the closest hospital?" he asked urgently, knowing without a doubt that this was too serious a wound for him to fix.

"I stabbed him…" Sister Mathias whispered, staring unseeingly at the blood drying on her hands. "This is my fault… I stabbed him…"

"Hey, snap out of it!" Sam growled at her, glancing between the nun and his brother, whose breathing had now deteriorated into shallow panting while his skin grew paler and by the second. "Even if it was your fault, which it isn't, that's not important right now. Dean's in real trouble, and I need you to pull yourself together and tell me where the closest hospital is, okay? Please!"

"I-it's… It's two blocks from here," Sister Mathias managed, eyes still wide and hands still trembling but at least focused enough to respond to his questions. "Just… head east on Main and then go right when it intersects Pine Street. You can't miss it."

"Thanks. Make sure to wash the blood off your hands and hide that knife somewhere," Sam said hurriedly as he bent down to slip his arms underneath Dean's knees and shoulders, not caring how much his back protested hefting his brother's full weight into a bridal-style carry. The older hunter's eyes cracked open at the movement and he whimpered pitifully, unconsciously trying to curl into a ball and protect his middle, and Sam took off running toward the church doors as fast as his long legs could carry him.

He reached the Impala in record time, gently laying Dean across the passenger side of the front seat before climbing in himself, one hand on the steering wheel and the other keeping pressure on the still-gushing wound.

"S…am…" Dean whispered, barely able to force the words out between his helpless gasps for air. In the dim illumination provided by the streetlights, Sam could see his older brother's lips beginning to turn a pale shade of blue. "Don' wanna die… yet, S'mmy… 's what I c'nfessed 'n there… 'm scared, Sammy… I don' wanna d… die yet…"

"Okay, Dean," Sam said softly, holding back tears as he took a moment to give his brother's hand a reassuring squeeze before returning to holding pressure over the blood-soaked cloth. "Hang in there, man, we're gonna get you some help. It's all gonna be okay."

He sped through every red light between the church and hospital and wove wildly between the slower cars that blocked his way, nearly hitting a couple of different people and not even caring, and reached the ER parking lot in under two minutes. Wasting no more time, he ran around to the passenger side, reaching in and hefting Dean into his arms a second time as he made a beeline for the ER doors. His brother wheezed and moaned with every movement but stayed still, drifting in and out of consciousness as Sam took them both into the crowded lobby.

"Help! My brother needs help!" the younger hunter cried, drawing the attention of several nearby employees. Within seconds he found himself surrounded by a pack of doctors and nurses in multi-colored scrubs and Dean was being taken from him, head lolling limply back and forth on the gurney as they wheeled him away toward the trauma ward. Before he could even think to try and follow after them they were gone, heavy double doors swinging shut behind them and leaving Sam alone in the waiting room with nothing but his own panic and despair.

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It took several hours for anyone to bring Sam news about his brother's condition, and when Dean's doctor finally arrived, he had to try very hard not to shake the man until his teeth rattled out of pure desperation.

"How is he?" he demanded instead, hands clenched into fists at his sides to try and hide how hard they were trembling.

"Your brother is lucky you brought him in when you did, Mr. Hensley," the balding man answered, looking very calm despite the fact that his scrubs were covered in blood – most likely Dean's. "Whoever stabbed him was definitely trying to do some damage. The tip of the knife punctured his duodenum, which is the upper part of the small intestine, and that allowed some of the contents to spill out into his abdominal cavity. It also severed the artery that feeds that part of the intestine, which is why he was hemorrhaging so severely."

Sam suddenly felt like his legs were made of jelly, and he barely had enough time to plop himself down into a chair before they decided to give out entirely. He buried his face in his hands and heard the doctor asking him if he was okay, knew the man was telling him to take deep breaths, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He wasn't a doctor, but he knew enough about the human body to know that injuries like that were extremely serious, and it just reaffirmed the horrific thought that had been swimming around in his mind since they had arrived at the hospital:

His brother had almost died tonight. Not because of the Mark of Cain, or an attack by a demon or angel, but because of one run-of-the-mill vengeful spirit. And if he had, all of the work Sam had been doing to try and cure his brother would have been for nothing. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths through his nose and reminding himself, _"It's okay, he made it through. He's okay,"_ over and over until he could feel his heartrate returning to normal and his panicky, staccato breaths evening out.

Once he'd calmed himself he looked back up at the doctor, who seemed about half a second away from admitting him as well, and smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry, it's just a lot to take in. My brother's all I've got, you know? So if something had happened to him…"

The older man smiled sympathetically. "I understand. I have a younger sister, and we're close in the same way you two seem to be. But like I was saying, Dean's going to be fine. We closed up the intestinal tear before it could get any worse and sealed and cauterized the artery. He also needed a blood transfusion, since he didn't have enough red blood cells to effectively move oxygen throughout his body; that's why his lips were turning blue when you brought him in. But other than that, and the fact that he's going to need some heavy-duty antibiotics thanks to the intestinal tear, he should make a full recovery in just a few weeks."

"Thank God…" Sam whispered, and for the first time in a long time, he was pretty sure he meant it.

"Yes, your brother definitely has some kind of guardian angel looking out for him," the doctor agreed with a smile, not realizing how literally true that statement was. "Now, would you like to see him? He's still under the effects of some strong pain medication, but he was asking for you the second he woke up from the surgery."

"Yeah," Sam answered with a smile, having already gotten to his feet the second the other man offered to let him see Dean. "Lead the way."

He followed the doctor through a short maze of twisting hallways, passing one group ICU room after another until they finally stopped at a door to a small, single-patient unit. As soon as he stepped into the room he could see that Dean was already awake, and the older hunter's lips curved up in a weak smile behind his oxygen mask as soon as he saw his little brother.

"Sammy, hey," Dean rasped, gesturing to the chair beside his bed and waiting patiently until Sam had folded his lanky frame into it. "I was wondering when they'd get around to letting you in here. Thought I'd have to go out there and find you myself if they waited much longer."

"Yeah, right," Sam said with a smirk, eyeing the thick gauze pads stuck to his brother's bare torso and the IV lines trailing from both arms. "I think you'd've made it about two steps before you either passed out or ripped your stitches open."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, well, you're here now anyway, so we won't have to find out."

"I'll leave you boys to talk in private," the doctor cut in, already halfway out of the door as he watched the two siblings with a kind and knowing smile. "If anything feels wrong or you start experiencing any nausea, Mr. Hensley, don't hesitate to page me or one of the nurses. We don't want you putting any strain on that stomach wound for quite a while."

"Gotcha," Dean said with a quick thumbs-up, his voice still muffled behind the plastic that covered his mouth and nose. He waited until the doctor was completely out of sight and then seemed to visibly deflate, eyes closing as he slumped back against the pillow with a pained sigh.

"Dean? You okay?" Sam asked, immediately concerned by the way his brother's bravado had vanished as soon as all the strangers in the room had gone away.

"Yeah, 'm good…" Dean muttered, opening his eyes and staring blankly at the ceiling instead of looking at his brother.

Sam sighed, wringing part of his bloodied flannel shirt between his hands in frustration. He knew Dean usually put on a tough act for people like doctors and nurses, especially if they were attractive women, but he also usually kept up most of that act until Sam had left the room, too. For him to reveal this much exhaustion in front of his little brother meant he must be feeling really terrible, and Sam wasn't sure exactly what he could do to help if Dean wouldn't tell him.

Just as he was about to call Dean out on his tough-guy act and demand some answers, Dean cleared his throat and spoke up, his voice so soft it was barely above a whisper.

"Actually, no. I'm not okay." He looked down at his hands, which were fisted in the thin hospital blanket, and then locked eyes with the younger Winchester. "I'm scared right now, Sammy. I'm really scared."

He paused for a moment, obviously expecting some sort of comment from Sam, but when none came he continued on, his voice a little bit stronger now.

"What I said in the car, about not being ready to die yet – I meant all of that. I don't want this Mark to kill me, Sam, and I don't want you or Cas to have to put me down like a mad dog." Sam winced at that imagery, but Dean didn't seem to notice. "I know it might be a lost cause, and there might not even be a cure, but… I don't wanna give up yet, you know?" Here Dean's voice cracked a little, and Sam could see his eyes shining with moisture as he forced out his next shaking words. "And even though I've been fighting you every step of the way, I hope you aren't ready to give up on me yet, either."

Feeling more relieved than he had in a long time at hearing those words, Sam leaned over and gave Dean's shoulder a quick squeeze, smiling in spite of his brother's confused, uncertain expression.

"I've never been ready to give up on you, Dean; I never will be. And if you aren't ready to die yet, then you won't. Just keep fighting and don't give up on yourself, and we'll find a way to fix this. I promise."

Letting out a sigh that sounded more like a restrained sob, Dean finally relaxed and lay his head down on the thin hospital pillow, the loss of his adrenaline rush and the effects of the pain meds pulling him very strongly toward sleep. But just before he lost the battle for consciousness, he closed his eyes and smiled, a small tear dripping down his cheek as he whispered, "Thank you, Sammy…"

Sam smiled back at him, waiting until he fell completely into sleep before carefully pulling the blankets up and gently tucking him in. "Any time, big brother."

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**A/N: This fic was inspired not only by episode 10x16 and my love of hurt/comfort, but also by Jared Padalecki's wonderful campaign to destigmatize mental illness and prevent suicide. **

***ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING!***


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